Hello, brave readers! The prologue is over! In the frozen heights of the southern Mountains, the Rose Legion encounters a mysterious enemy.

As always, constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoy...

The Oath Of Mars, Part 3: Caedo

Marius thinks to himself that he prefers Valkenheim to the Skyrakers. At least Valkenheim was cold and flat, and you knew what was trying to kill you. The warhorses of the Lawbringers were bred to navigate every sort of terrain you might find, in Ashfeld and beyond, but even Lamri was having trouble surmounting the great snowy slopes of the southern highlands. They had to abandon the wagons a short while ago, but thankfully, the battleground was not far off.

"Doesn't it seem odd?"

Jumping, knocked from his own thoughts by the voice, he looks down. Oh no.

Elizabeth.

"...What?"

"That whoever's causing trouble here would trudge through such a snow-blighted wasteland as this just to stab a few farmers. Why are they doing it?"

"I don't know."

"Ah. Perhaps they're xenophobic. They see a culture aside from their own, they're obliged to conquer it. Remind you of someone?"

"I feel I should note that I've trained Lamri to kick on command."

"Fine! Sorry..."

"That... was easy. No holier-than-thou philosophical tirade?"

"No..."

Silence.

"Can I... ride the horse?"

"No."

"There's space enough for two people Marius, I'm not asking you to get-"

"No."

"Come on, Marius, my legs are about to fall off with all this climbing!"

"Then drag yourself with your hands, wench."

"Why you-! You-! ...Gh!"

And a snowball hits the back of his helmet.

"Lamri! Kick! Kick!"

Lamri does not kick. She has not been trained to kick on command.

They had been marching for a long, long time. Three days, and all that time they had been in the dark, with only torchlight and the occasional lava flow to show the way.

But now? Far off in the distance, daylight.

The other side. The new world.

Mars Gradivus smiles.

At long last, the ground mercifully leveled out. Gasping in relief, Elizabeth lies face first in the flat, powdery snow.

"That's a good way to freeze to death, or at least get sick."

"If I do, it's your fault, you soulless case of metal!"

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

He looks away from the exhausted assassin, back ahead. In the distance, he can see a shattered pole, with a flag attached, frozen stiff and straight, as if locked in time, mid-gust of wind. A shield with three roses emblazoned upon it lay on a field of pink. The standards of the Rose Legion.

"We're here. See what you can find while we set up camp. I want a report by nightfall."

Stepping down from his steed, he walks past the Peacekeeper wordlessly. Approaching his horse, the Peacekeeper whispers harshly.

"Your owner's a rat bastard, horse."

Lamri whinnies, oblivious.

"So, what have you found, milady?"

"What? Oh, nothing, so far. Everything's been buried by the snow. Assuming there was anything to find in the first place."

The peacekeeper sighs in frustration, leaning away from the little dig she had started, around the frozen remnants of a tent, and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Bring that torch closer, would you? This cloak only does so much."

The warden crouches beside her, holding the flame close. Shaking her head, the half-frozen woman speaks, frustration evident.

"Marius was right; no bodies, ours or theirs. At least, so far. I've found patches of blood here and there, but that hardly tells us anything."

"Well, what about the cultures of the south? Anything in your studies about a society that takes the corpses of their enemies?"

"No. Whoever did this, their society has changed since the cataclysm."

"Changed?"

"Cultures aren't set in stone, my dear. Just look at Publius' journal. We've changed very much since the fall of the Empire, haven't we? And even before that, the Empire was radically different from the pre-cataclysm society of the region, which resembled ours, instead taking on the image of an even older civilization that pre-dated that one."

The Warden nods in understanding.

"So, like a game of leap frog? Empire, Legion, Empire, Legion?"

"More or less. We aren't the only ones who've changed. The warriors of Valkenheim weren't always so fanatically devoted to their gods. They wore armor like we did, but now their 'Raiders' rely on the favor of Odin as their only defense. And the Chosen wore metal armor before arriving to the Mire. The lack of meaningfully large metal deposits and an abundance of strong trees forced them into making their armor out of wood instead. The Cataclysm changed everything, for everyone."

"...Where do you think we'd be, if it hadn't happened?"

"I can't even begin to imagine. It's been...well, centuries since then. A civilization rose from nothing and fell to the same since then, with enough time left over for us to forget about it."

Sighing, she leans back, away from the slowly widening hole in the snow, and sits down.

-And promptly jumps back up with a shout.

"Good god!"

"What is it!?"

Whirling around, the peacekeeper starts digging at the snow.

"Something stabbed me!"

Fishing the offending point from the snow, she holds the mysterious object in her hands. A dagger, coated in frozen blood, with a handle made of antler seared black, and a wide, thick blade. She knew exactly what this was.

It was a bloody pugio, a type of ancient fighting knife.

A type of ancient fighting knife that was used by the Empire.

But this? This was newly made. The blade was made of steel, not plain iron or bronze. As if in reply to her confusion, far off in the distance, a horn sounded.

Nervously, the Warden draws her sword.

"Did you hear that? What do you think it is?"

Following suit, the Peacekeeper unsheathes her twin blades.

"Knowing our luck, trouble."

"Futuo!"

Putting the horn to his lips, the lightly armored scout blows as hard as he can, sending the tone echoing through the mountains. His hiding place exposed, he attempts to flee-

-Only for a metal gauntlet to pin him to the tree trunk he had been crouched behind.

"WHO ARE YOU?"

Marius wrapped his hands around the strange soldiers throat. He was cloaked in a suit of iron scales, and at one hip lay a sword curved outwards, and at the other was a short, but wide-bladed dagger. He had never seen anything like it.

But that didn't matter right now.

"WHERE ARE MY MEN?!"

"Peri, catamitus!"

Unsheathing the shorter blade, he attempts to plunge it into the metal-clad man, but he simply rips the blade from his hands with one of his own. Headbutting him with his helmet, the scout collapses to a squat- the perfect height for Marius to drive an armored knee into his face. Hauling him to his feet by his hair, the Lawbringer pins him back against the tree. Now in Latin, Marius roars.

"WRONG ANSWER! WHERE?!"

Spitting in his face, the beaten scout laughs defiantly.

"I know your tongue, dog! Do not sully Mars' own with your foul breath!"

"Mars?"

That moment of confusion, both from the realization that their enemies spoke the same tongue as they and from this talk of someone named Mars, was what the scout was looking for. Bracing his back against the tree, he pushes the Lawbringer away with his legs and draws his sword.

Taking his halberd in both hands, he levels it at the soldier as he charges. Deflecting the scout's stab with the shaft of his weapon, the blade lodges itself in the tree behind him. Winding the axe back, he cleaves the mysterious assailants head from his shoulders without much ado. Wordlessly, he pulls the curved blade from the tree and puts it through his belt. Maybe Elizabeth could tell him where this sword was from.

But he had to hurry. The man at his feet had sounded the horn. Who knew what kind of reinforcements it would bring?

He whistled for Lamri.

Gradivus honed his gladius with slow strokes, wearing away the scratches and scrapes of previous battles. He and his camp stood at the mouth of Mars' Path, the colossal rift in the mountainside that linked Empire and Legion. The scouts had been deployed, tasked with combing the lowlands to the south for prospective sacrifices.

As it were, they didn't have to travel far. A horn, sounded, far below. The camp became charged with an unidentifiable energy, soldiers dropping their tasks, looking to their master. Awaiting orders.

Wordlessly, he sheathed his sword, donning the bearded mask of Creta, the sign of his office.

And then, he marched, centuria following behind.

Garth kept his eyes forward, head tucked behind his shield, men at arms to his sides. That had been a signal horn, some minutes ago. And the pattern it blew was no order he recognized. He and the less experienced soldiers under his supervision were beating a careful retreat back to the battlegrounds, shields raised and ready for ambush.

He heard crunching snow behind him. Whirling around, flail spinning over his head, he prepared to strike-

Only to see Elizabeth and her Warden companion.

"Christ! It's you! Don' ye ever announce yerself?!"

The Peacekeeper claps him on the shoulders.

"Garth, I think I have a theory as to who we're up against, but it's a wild one."

"Wot?"

Stepping past him, she looks around.

"Garth, where's Marius?"

"He went west on that big bear-horse a' his! We split up so we could cover more ground!"

"Are you kidding me? Since when has 'splitting up' ever been a good idea?!"

"Wait-wait-wait! Just a minute! What's this 'theory' a' yours?!"

She looks like she's about to respond, but someone interrupted her. A deep, calm voice, like distant thunder.

"You... speak the lingua plebis?"

The party, distracted by one another, whirls to face the unknown voice.

Before them stood perhaps the largest man Elizabeth had ever seen. The towering figure would put even the Raiders of Valkenheim to shame, and this one was wearing armor. More specifically, a muscle cuirass, a fitted breastplate hammered into the shape of a well-defined torso, black iron accented with gold. A helmet, styled into the image of a bearded man's face, concealed his true visage. At his hip was a short, stout blade, designed for thrusting attacks.

A gladius. Signature weapon of the old Empire.

Anna levels her sword at the mysterious soldier.

"Who are you?!"

Elizabeth steps forward, past the rest, placing herself between the masked man and the rest of her party.

"I know who he is, Anna."

The menacing figure leans back, calmly adjusting the gauntlet on his left hand.

"...Oh?"

She thinks back to Publius' Journal. After they won, the rebels didn't massacre the loyalist survivors. Just sent them away.

"You're the Empire. After the civil war, the surviving loyalists were exiled to parts unknown. They must have found a way over the mountains. It's been centuries... but you've returned."

The centurion is silent for a moment, no visible reaction to her words. But when he does speak, the words surprise her.

"Return...? Exile? An Empire we are, but this is not our home."

The peacekeeper was confused. The man standing before her was an almost stereotypical Imperial soldier, barring his missing scutum. There was no way the resemblance was mere chance. But... this wasn't an attempt at reclaiming their homeland?

"Wait, you don't-"

He steps forward, and the peacekeeper readies her blades.

"Enough talk. What you think we are does not matter. This is all you need to know."

He unsheathes his gladius, a shaft of black metal like a piece of midnight.

"I am Mars Gradivus."

He points the sword at her, razor tip leveled at her heart.

"And I am your opponent."

He was fast. Faster than any man his size ought to be. In an instant, he was upon her.

"Milady!"

Stopping the black blade, just barely, with her own sword, she staggers back under his strength, the sheer force of his downwards stab alone threatening to send her to the ground. Releasing one hand from his iron-fisted grip on the sword's hilt, he smashes it into her face mask. The thick metal gauntlet gave his fist the crushing power of a mace, and she was sent flying back, unconscious.

The two men at arms charge, swords raised. Blocking one blade with his sword and the other with the heavy metal gauntlet on his other arm, he kicks one away and backhands the other. Almost stumbling to the ground, the pair only barely manage to keep their feet. Raising the sword for another strike, the one closest lunges forward, driven more by adrenaline than a soldier's discipline. Catching the clumsily swung blade with his armor-clad hand, the mysterious warrior brings the pommel of his gladius into the flat of the sword, snapping the cheap steel clean in two. Flipping both his Gladius and the latter half of the soldier's sword into a reverse grip, he hooks the shield of the disarmed knight with his blade and pulls it aside, giving him the opening he needed to slam the other half of the knight's own into his neck. Leaving the broken sword in his slain opponent, Gradivus pounces on the other. The man-at-arms raises his shield, but, putting all of his strength behind his blade, the Aspect of Mars simply hammers it right through, nailing the soldier's own shield to his chest like a plank of wood.

"You rat son of a bitch! I'll kill ye!"

With a cry of fury, Garth whirls his flail above his head, building up momentum. Swinging it in a crushing overhead arc, he strikes at the centurion. Blade still lodged in the soldier, Gradivus is forced backwards, abandoning his weapon. Unphased, he puts his armored, caestus-clad fists up at the ready. Deflecting a strike from the whirling flail with one gauntlet, he pulls his shield aside with the other and drives his knee into the Conqueror's gut. Bringing his fist back, he prepares to strike- only to be tackled by the Warden, sending him staggering back.

Breathing heavily, Garth keeps his shield up. Anna readies herself for more.

But it doesn't come.

"...Unfortunate. I should hope the rest of you provide better fare."

He cracks his neck, and then his knuckles. Stretching, he sighs.

"Mars would hardly gain from the blood of barbarians so bereft of skill. But it shall have to do. The hostia must be completed."

He points at the Warden.

"You. At least you landed a blow, if not with your weapon. Perhaps you'll perform more aptly outside of an ambush? The arena may suit you better..."

"Do you think you'll take us, fiend?! You are without weapons! Surrender!"

Looking around, Gradivus opens his arms wide.

"Oh? Am I? It seems my voice serves me better than my fists."

"Wha-?"

Someone kicks her in the back of the knees. Dropping to the ground, her assailant puts a dagger- the same kind of dagger lady Elizabeth found- to her neck.

"Excellent work, Ultor."

A lightly armored soldier, cloaked in red leather scales, held the blade to her neck. At his hip was an ornate, inwardly-curved blade, and the sheath of the dagger he now wielded.

"Only with so fine a distraction was it possible, my lord."

"Let her go, ye bastards!"

He raises his flail, but Ultor only presses the blade further into her neck. Gradivus strides forward, ripping his sword from the dead legionnaire.

"You will live yet, as prisoners. The hostia will not be complete without you. But we can afford to sacrifice one of you here and now. Be still... slave."

Gradivus, now just behind Garth, still turned to his captured companion, wraps an arm around the Conqueror's neck, muscles flexing to cut off the flow of blood to his brain. The veteran conscript struggled, but against the giant's strength, it was in vain. Letting him drop after several seconds in the sleeper hold, unconscious, Gradivus removes Anna's helmet and nods. Unsheathing his other blade, Mars Ultor brings the horse-shaped butt of the falcatta down onto her bare scalp, and her world goes black.

Gradivus sat in his tent, some hours later. The company of southerners had been divided into small squadrons, to better comb the frozen woods. They had never expected to find an organized fighting force of this scale, it seems. The carts were loaded, the prisoners shackled, the bodies burned and bones ground.

But something troubled him.

He had seen the prisoners march by. He had sifted through the bodies. The ridge of horsehair atop his galea marked him as the leader of his centuria. Most enemies he had faced had similar embellishments- armor adorned with certain colors or baubles such as feathers. But none of the prisoners -nor the corpses- bore any emblem of their position.

So, the question remains; Where was their leader?

Gradivus would find his answer soon, as a scream erupted from outside.

He swung his halberd in a wide arc from atop his armored warhorse, sending the nearest invader flying into the silken outer walls of a purple tent. He slumped down against the partition, staining the fine cloth red with his life's blood.

"I AM MARIUS GAIUS FLAVIUS, LORD COMMANDER OF THE ROSE LEGION! LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND SURRENDER MY MEN TO ME, OR DECLARE YOUR LIFE FORFEIT!"

The effect was not dissimilar to kicking an anthill. Night falling, and the Imperial forces, not expecting a lone madman in full platemail to charge into the middle of their camp and strike a man down, scrambled for their weapons, shouting curses in Latin.

All save one. One man, armor ornamented and gilt in precious metals, stepped out from his tent -the purple one Marius had just now sullied- and drew his Gladius. He bore a comb of hair atop his helmet.

"YOU! Do you lead this band?! I demand that you explain yourself!"

"...You are most brave, to walk without allies into the lion's den! Such valour!"

Throwing his arms wide, he laughed, looking to the sky.

"Surely, such an offering would sate you, my lord!"

"I care not for your meaningless words! Give me my men!"

Readying himself, he stares down the steel golem and his colossal steed.

"If you so desire the liberation of your fellows, then I bid you, fight to claim them!"

Raising his Gladius, he bellows his orders.

"Take him breathing, my sons!"

Digging his heels into Lamri's sides, the horse breaks into a gallop, his poleaxe leveled like a lance. The Imperials, regaining their wits, charged in turn.